


A House at the End of the World

by Anonymous



Category: Being Human (UK), The Almighty Johnsons
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Doctor who vibes, First Meetings, M/M, Romance, angst-ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-09-27 02:35:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20400268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: The world has ended but the life goes on





	A House at the End of the World

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dab](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dab/gifts).

The world has ended, it was as simple as that. The world has ended, and humanity ended with it. Not all of it, of course, not even most of it. Humans have always been adaptive, so now, after  _ the big boom _ , the grand fireworks that tore the reality into pieces, they were left to figure out their new universe - and they adapted.

Nobody really knew what happened. There were rumors, of course, and Mitchell heard them all. Some of them were pragmatic - an atomic bomb or a nuclear experiment gone wrong. Some of them were a bit on a mystical side - Voldemort winning the war or the Second Coming. Some of them were, well, plain ridiculous - werewolves stealing the Moon and vampires trying to create a perfect race but failing.

Mitchel’s favorite, though, was the Ragnarok. He always thought that one to be the most realistic - Norse Gods screwing up and bringing their Doom to Earth, where it extended, expanded and eventually ended the world as they knew it. 

Kind of poetic, really.

When it happened (when the reality paused, blinked and then blew into tiny pieces) Mitchell himself was busy dying. He was actually on his way to Hell (he hoped for Heaven, but he knew better) and then suddenly - he wasn’t. Not just dying - existing. But vampires were humans once and still had to pretend to be ones, so they could adapt even better. So, instead of ceasing to exist permanently, Mitchell just cursed in this poor excuse of an English language he used and came back to the new world.

It’s a little hard to explain what the new world was these days. Mitchell sometimes played with the idea of writing it all down, because it was changing so fast, but it always seemed like too much effort for no real reason.

He lived in a house. Very much like the one he shared with Annie and George so many years ago - pink, two storeyed and a complete mess. He liked it, though, especially since it had electricity, boiling hot water and an endless supply of tea.

That’s pretty much how Mitchell spent his days - slopping around the house, reading and drinking tea by gallons. It’s not like he had anything better to do to kill time. And besides, there was no time to kill anymore (when the reality broke in flinders, it kind of dragged the time with it, and now it was a Tardise explosion all over again, but in much, much greater scale). 

Despite feeling sometimes somewhat claustrophobic, Mitchell wasn’t the biggest fan of the idea of going outside. His house, this tiny thing with rusty pipes and creaky floors, stood right in the middle of...well. That one is even harder to explain. 

Imagine the Moon. It’s craters-covered surface with white dust and its transparent void of air. The dark Cosmos around it with billions upon billions of stars shining in the distance. And now imagine that these stars are huge abruptions with other realities (and times) leaking through. In ones there are vikings with their braids and swords and stinky breath. In others - dinosaurs and tropical plants. Some have aliens of all shapes and sizes (well, they couldn’t possibly be considered aliens anymore, but to Mitchell they definitely were). Some have angels and demons fighting their never ending war. Some have Beatles performing  _ Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds _ . Some have Pompei meeting its fate over and over and over again. 

And right in the middle of it, in this moon-like desert without any roads or plants, Mitchell’s little house was standing, proud and oh so lonely (with vikings and werewolves and tiny cherubs occasionally running around). 

So, his dislike of hanging outside was very much understandable. Though sometimes he did sit in a big armchair on his porch, a cup of milky tea in his hands and the wind (that came in all colors and scents) playing with his outgrown curls.

Mitchell did feel kind of lonely on days (well, they weren’t really  _ days _ , but Mitchell preferred old terms) like that. But really, there wasn’t anything he could do about it.

* * *

On that particular morning (again, not  _ really _ a morning, but the time when Mitchell woke up after a few centuries long sleep) it was unusually cold and the air of the tiny pink house was filled with white and silver snowflakes, which were just hanging there without any intent of falling or melting soon. Mitchell, after coming down the stairs and noticing his new decor, just yawned ungracefully and went to the kitchen to put the kettle boiling. A few snowflakes tangles in his hair, but he didn’t really mind their company. 

After filling the biggest cup he owned with this new mint tea he found a couple decades ago, Mitchell went to the living room and flopped down on an old sofa that was standing by the green wall. The piece of furniture creaked weakly but Mitchell was so used to the sound that he barely even registered it. He put the cup on a small wooden table so he could wrap himself up in a worn out blanket (that looked almost exactly like the one Annie made for him one day, but that thing was too familiar to Mitchell to miss small faults that set them apart) and was just about to grab the book he started sometime ago ( _ Station Eleven _ by Emily St. John Mandel, nothing fancy), when he heard. The sound, that Mitchell heard so many times before the world has ended, but never thought he would hear it ever again.

There was a knock at the door.

Mitchell stilled, caught mid-motion - the book in one hand and the other one reaching to take the cup from the table, eyes glued to the white door. He even held his breath for that long moment of silence, that lasted what felt like centuries, until the knock sounded again.

And again.

After the third repetition, Mitchell finally shook his head, getting back to his senses, and abruptly scrambled to his feet, tossing the book on the sofa. It took him three long strides to get to the door, but then he paused, unsure what to do. 

Mitchell was curious of course, but he still valued his life, even if wasn’t as sane as it was before. And well, he has seen demons a couple of times, so getting to Hell wasn’t his first priority, despite the sins he thought himself guilty of committing.

“Oh, come on!” sounded muffled and very kiwi voice from behind the door followed by another bang, that made Mitchell jump and bump his elbow into wooden surface.

“Fine. Fine!” he mumbled, face crumpled with pain. “Wait a damn minute!” and he started on his five very unreliable locks.

When Mitchell finally threw the door open, he was stunned into silence again, despite his elbow throbbing with pain.

There, right at his threshold, was a man. A  _ human _ . A human, that looked, smelled and sounded very out of place and at the same time - like he  _ belonged _ . And the thing is, there were no humans ( _ actual _ humans) left in the new world. Everyone who now existed, were corrupted by the disruption, changed, deformed (not always physically, but definitely mentally). But he, this  _ human _ , was as average and usual as humans were  _ before _ .

He just stood there, his eyes blue, his beard and hair blond, wearing a costume that looked more expensive than Mitchell’s whole house. And, well, despite how many times Mitchell blinked, expecting him to go away, he wasn’t going to disappear any time soon.

“Right about time!” droned the human and stepped inside the house, thrusting past Mitchell into the living room. “Please, tell me you have something to drink, mate?”

“I have tea?” offered Mitchell slowly, suddenly very unsure of the situation.

“I was hoping for something stronger.” smirked the human, taking off his jacket and flopping down the old red armchair.

“I can add bergamot, if you want.” Mitchell closed the door and pushed against it, his eyes glued to the human.

“Oh, damn it!” the human wrinkled his nose in distaste. “What, vampires are allergic to vodka?”

“This house provides tea, so I drink tea.” Mitchell pursed his lips, feeling suddenly very annoyed. “It’s not like I can go shopping these days.”

“True.” shrugged the human and chuckled unexpectedly friendly. “I’m Anders, by the way.”

“And  _ human _ .” Mitchell narrowed his eyes. “How is that possible?”

“It’s a long story, mate.” the human,  _ Anders _ sighed and then smiled, biting his lip, looking surprisingly boyish and attractive. “So, how about that tea? And, maybe, your name?”

Mitchell eyed him for a moment (or, maybe, an eternity) before pushing himself off the door and taking a step closer.

“Mitchell.”

“Mitchell the vampire.” grinned Anders, lifting his eyebrows. “Sexy.”

“You’re ridiculous, you know that, right?” Mitchell shook his head and turned to go to the kitchen.

“And Irish too! I’m in luck.” they’ve just met, but somehow Mitchell knew that Anders’ grin grew bigger. But for some reason, he didn’t really mind it.

* * *

Turned out, Mitchell was right about Ragnarok (or, maybe, Anders just believed in his story too much when in reality happened something entirely different). It didn’t really matter, because living with Anders was so much more fun than living alone.

Mitchell did ask him how he happened upon the pink house, and Anders laughed sarcastically and told him this long and complicated story about his brothers, their quest to get things back to normal and their stupid habits that were driving him insane (“I mean, come on, Mitch, even you wouldn’t stay with someone who talks to his dog as if it was his best friend. At first it was okay, but now he actually let’s this ball of fur make decisions for us!”).

“So, that’s why you ran away?” asked Mitchell once, sprawled on the sofa, whiskey glass in his hand.

“First of all, I didn’t run away.” huffed Anders, jerking up his head. “Second, I got bored. They’re my  _ brothers _ and I’ve been around them for  _ centuries _ . I just woke up one morning and realized, if I had to spend another day with them, I’d kill them. Or myself. And that seemed like a far worse idea than just leaving to explore the world on my own.”

“And so, you ran away.” grinned Mitchell and received a pillow thrown at his head for his troubles.

* * *

The world didn’t ever got back to normal, so Mitchell had to assume, that Anders’ brothers hadn’t succeeded in their mission, but he didn’t really mind anymore. 

He did like the idea that now he had someone to share his books with. And his tea (and whiskey, because after Anders moved in, they’ve started finding unopened bottles in the most peculiar places in the house). And his blankets. 

And sometimes they even made out on the sofa (when they weren’t busy bantering or bickering or even actually fighting over the stupidest things on earth). 

Mitchell loved it. 

And the life in a little pink house at the end of the world went on and on and on. For an eternity. And then a little longer.


End file.
